


Polarnatt

by hopeintheashes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He won't stop fighting until he tears a hole in the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polarnatt

**Author's Note:**

> Also available on [LJ](http://hopeintheashes.livejournal.com/7889.html).
> 
> After watching 8.02, I was gripped by two ideas: One, that Dean had spent a year fighting to get back to Sam and imagining that Sam was doing the same (which made the truth all the harder to take), and Two, that at some point, Dean must have been out of it enough to think that Benny was Sam. Out of that came this.

Purgatory exists in a dim half-light that silhouettes the endless trees. Dean can’t decide whether it’s twilight or dawn. He finally settles on the kind of light that comes to the far, far North in the middle of winter; a few hours of dimness, pulled out, stretched forever. He saw taffy at a state fair once, turning and pulling and pulling and turning. He couldn’t look away. The sky here is pulled out like that, stretched between the hands of God, blocking out the sun, keeping the monsters caged.

From inside, it doesn’t look much like a cage. They could run forever and never find the end. _(They could run forever and never find Cas.)_ They’re more-or-less following the river because that’s what you do when you’re lost in the woods, but Dean’s pretty sure this one will never lead to the sea. Benny doesn’t fight him, just matches Dean step for step. He’s got a plan, but he’s not telling. Have to keep your secrets close. Once you give them all away, there’s nothing left to sell. 

 

. . .

  
They’ve been running for days. It’s a word with no meaning here, in this sideways North with no sunrise or sunset, but he uses it anyway. Sometimes he thinks of them as "sleeps," the way he used to talk to Sam when the kid was too little to understand time. _Three more sleeps, then Dad’s coming home._ It was usually a lie, but that boy believed anything that came out of his big brother’s mouth. That spell had been broken ages ago, but it had never stopped him from trying. ( _It’s fine, Sammy, you’re fine_ , he’d said, voice breaking and his brother heavy in his arms, blood spilling out between his fingers into the dirt of a ghost-town road.)

Benny’s pressing onward, fast, quiet, and alert. Dean’s still running, but his breathing’s ragged. His body’s starting to ache.

“Dean!” Benny turns and he’s already swinging. He takes the head off the vamp before Dean can turn and draw.

Benny’s wiping off his blade and looking at him hard. “Let’s stop here. As good a place as any.”

“Yeah.” He’s too tired to run any more. “Fine.”

 

. . .

  
Benny’s sitting up against a tree, blade at the ready, poised in his lap. Dean thinks he should offer to keep watch, but he’s out before he can form the words.

He wakes up shivering hard. Benny’s still propped up against the tree, scanning the forest. It could have been an hour; it could have been three days. _One sleep._ Time is fluid here. Subjective. Everyone exists in their own little world, only intersecting to hunt or kill or flee or die. No need to agree on a calendar or a clock.

_“Fuck.”_ It’s low and desperate, hissed between teeth that won’t keep still. Benny turns his head and surveys him again, slowly, then stands and shrugs out of his worn wool coat. Dean can’t figure out why until the coat comes down on him like a blanket. Before he can speak, Benny is pacing the edges of the small clearing, peering out into the trees.

 

. . .

  
Dean wakes up coughing and finds Benny standing, tense, at the edge of the trees. “Sorry, buddy, we gotta go.”

“Okay.”

He can’t run anymore. He’s got Benny’s coat draped over his shoulders like some cheerleader wearing her boyfriend’s letter jacket. He should be embarrassed, but he can’t bring himself to give up the warmth.

He can’t even stay on his feet during the next attack. Benny takes the whatever-it-is out in a few quick swings of the blade, but Dean’s already sinking to the ground, fingers brushing down the bark of a tree. “Sorry.” It’s a whisper, a last message before he slips away into darkness. “I’m sorry.”

 

. . .

  
_Anything for you, Sammy._ He said it all the time. Sarcastic, but at its core, absolute truth. And another, never spoken: _I sold my soul for you._ Any day now, any sleep, the sky is going to open up and he’ll be gone in a flash of light, into a bear hug and that particular scent that’s _Sam_. _Bet he hasn’t even cut his hair._ It was always in his eyes when he was little. Sam would come home crying sometimes, hiding behind that hair. Dean had to push it away to get him to look up. A few years later (not nearly long enough), he had to do the same to put stitches in his brother’s forehead. The scar’s still there somewhere, in close to the hairline. He was so careful. With Dad, he was careful out of fear. Respect. With Sammy, it was always out of love.

 

. . .

  
There are fingers pressed against his forehead, rough and calloused, like Dad’s. It feels like the middle of the night, but of course, they’re still suspended in that uncertain in-between. He gets one eye open. Benny.

“Hey, I had kids once,” he says by way of explanation.

“Well?” All that’s left is a painful whisper.

Benny looks away. “This place ain’t meant for humans.”

“Yeah.”

 

. . .

  
The sky opens up and Sam’s there at his side. Dean keeps waiting for the flash of light.

“Can we go home now, Sammy?” Eyes closed, voice shot.

“Soon.” Rough fingers on his forehead again. Dad’s fingers, not Sam’s. “Soon.”

 

. . .

  
“Knew you’d come for me.” Coughing ’til he chokes.

“Hang in there, buddy. Just hold on.”

 

. . .

  
Someone’s fighting.

_Knew you’d come for me._

Quick slices of the blade and sharp hisses of pain out in front of him, near the stream.

A harsh cry of triumph and the thud of a body on the forest floor.

And in the silence, from behind him, in between the trees, he hears the rustle of wings.

 

. . .  
. . .

  
Benny’s got blood streaked across his face. He’s pacing, arms folded, limping just a little.

“Hey.” It’s like he hasn’t used his voice in years.

Benny turns, startled. “Hey!” His grin fades. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it, man.”

“Yeah, well. I’m hard to kill.”

 

. . .

  
They’re sitting up together, leaning against a tree. Benny won’t take his coat back yet, but Dean’s too proud to wear it anymore. He settles for holding it on his lap, running the frayed wool through his hands.

“Hey, after that last fight, did you… see Cas? The angel?”

“No, did you? ’Cause you were certainly seein’ something.”

“I heard him. Thought I heard him.”

“Coulda been. Don’t know how else you’re still kickin’.”

“Yeah. Me neither. But…why wouldn’t he stay?”

Benny sighs. “I dunno, man. But we’ll find him.” He looks at Dean, and then away. “But we gotta do it soon. This place ain’t meant for humans. Not sure how long you’re gonna last.”

 

. . .

  
In a day (a sleep), he’s strong enough to walk, and in three more, he can fight again. Benny’s right, though, the fix won’t last—that ache in his bones is already wearing him down. There’s a time limit, a ticking clock, but this one’s not nearly so straightforward as his last desperate countdown to midnight. In the time he has left, he slices through attackers and passersby until they become informants. Until Benny has to look away.

He’s going after it now, going after it like the dying man he is. He knows now that the sky isn’t going to open up for him, not without whatever tricks Benny’s still got up his sleeves, and first, they need Cas. So he tortures and he kills and he tells Benny how simple it is here, how pure, how fucking beautiful. Benny holds his eyes, but doesn’t reply.

They’ve got a lead.

They take off running, Dean leading this time. His breathing’s starting to get bad. He remembers waking up in an airless box and clawing his way through the ground. He did it once. Could do it again. He’s got a blade this time. A hunting knife. An ally at his side. An angel down the river and a brother beyond the veil.

No one’s coming. It’s up to him to get them home.

And he won’t stop fighting until he tears a hole in the sky.


End file.
